Battle Lines
by Joodiff
Summary: When Boyd stubbornly won't back down from the stupidest idea Grace thinks he's ever had, neither of them really understand what the final cost to both of them could be... Complete. B/G. T for language. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing.

**Dedication:**_ For Gemenied who reminded me and also for Scription Addict who needs the distraction._

* * *

**Battle Lines**

by Joodiff

* * *

"_He that cannot forgive others breaks the bridge over which he must pass himself;  
for every man has need to be forgiven."_ – Thomas Fuller

**March**

Only he could be so incredibly stupid. So stupid, so headstrong and so damned egotistical. If she'd been told the same thing about any other member of the CCU, Grace's reaction would undoubtedly have been one of polite scepticism. But because it is _him_, and because she knows exactly how he reacts to being deliberately goaded by his peers, she isn't remotely surprised. Appalled, yes; surprised, no. Stalking through the quiet squad room towards his closed office door, she is aware that although Spencer and Mel both have their heads firmly down over whatever it is that suddenly requires such rapt concentration her progress is being minutely tracked. Evidently they heard the news long before she did. Which isn't much of a surprise. Coppers love to gossip about other coppers, and this… well, this might just be the best piece of gossip that has circulated through the building in a long, long time.

She does not bother to knock. Normally she affords him that simple courtesy even when he is alone, though it's been several years since she actually bothered to wait for a response before admitting herself to his lair. Today, Grace does not knock, she simply opens the door and marches straight in. The fact that he is in the middle of a telephone conversation doesn't faze her. Or him. He glares darkly at her and carries on talking, the smoothness of his tone immediately telling her that he is speaking to someone who out-ranks him by a considerable margin. Even Boyd will attempt diplomatic conciliation when the stakes are high enough.

Grace is not interested in who he's talking to, or what might be under discussion. Without saying a word, she slaps the small, slightly crumpled poster down on his desk – dead centre – and gives him the kind of hard interrogative stare that is almost always successful when he knows he's got something to feel guilty about. The deeply baleful gaze flicks down, focuses on the piece of glossy paper for a moment then rises again. All credit to him, he carries on talking, but if the tone doesn't change, the expression certainly does. The self-righteous irritability disappears instantly and is replaced with a shamefaced sort of acquiescence. Banged to rights, as the old saying goes.

Despite the less attractive facets of his character, Boyd can be very appealing when he wants to be. No-one knows that better than Grace. When sufficiently motivated, he's eminently capable of a boyish, engaging sort of charm that's often far more successful than she'd ever care to admit. Today, however, she is thoroughly annoyed and she is not going to be easily charmed. She raises her eyebrows pointedly at him. Predictably, Boyd falls back on another incredibly potent weapon in his defensive armoury – the easy, disarming grin. A little bit sheepish, a little bit penitent and simultaneously just a little bit mischievous. That grin's quite often ridiculously successful at dispelling her wrath, too – and he knows it. But, again, not today. Slowly and deliberately, Grace puts her hands on her hips. It's not quite an open declaration of war, but it comes close.

Finally concluding his conversation, Boyd gently replaces the telephone receiver in its cradle and looks up at her. Uncharacteristically meek and courteous, he says, "Grace. What can I do for you?"

Unerringly, she points at the incriminatory poster on his desk. "Well?"

"Ah," he says. He tries the too-appealing grin again. "You've heard, then?"

Grace glowers at him. "Even _you_ cannot possibly be capable of doing something so unbelievably stupid, surely?"

But she already knows he is.

-oOo-

It's not the first time she's found herself in the contradictory position of strongly disapproving of the very quirks of character that help to make him such an attractive proposition. In a world of staid middle-aged men who are sleek, staid and complacent, Peter Boyd is something of an oddity. A fiery, volatile oddity who's singularly unafraid to say exactly what he thinks and to do exactly as he pleases. It doesn't win him many friends, his wilful individuality and his stubborn refusal to pretend to be something he's not just to conform, but though his idiosyncratic obstinacy can be utterly infuriating, the well-hidden part of Grace that remains defiantly unconventional despite the path her career has taken privately approves of it. Thoroughly approves of it, in fact. At heart, and in very different ways, they are both determinedly free spirits.

But tonight she does not approve of his foibles. Tonight she finds them neither endearing nor amusing. Words – harsh and wounding words – have already been forcibly exchanged, but in some kind of tribute to how just hard Boyd is trying to appease her, although a few doors have been loudly and angrily slammed, he has thus far somehow failed to furiously storm off alone into the night. In fact, if either of them is still being unreasonably petulant, it's Grace. And she doesn't care. He's as guilty as sin, after all, and though she already knows he obstinately won't back down, she's quite prepared to make him work hard for the delicate truce that will inevitably be declared once honour is satisfied. Or they finally tire of the incessant squabbling. Whichever happens first.

Following her quietly into the kitchen, Boyd halts behind her, puts his hands on her hips and lowers his head to brush the lightest and most deliberately artful of kisses against the side of her neck. "C'mon, Grace," he murmurs, his voice pitched somewhere low in the deep, velvet registers, "it's six minutes, that's all. Six minutes."

Both caresses – the physical and the auditory – are dangerously seductive. But Grace still isn't ready to be seduced. Waspishly, she says, "I thought we were still talking about your rank stupidity, not your usual performance in the bedroom?"

"Ouch," he says, but mildly. "You really know how to wound a man, don't you?"

"I thought masochism was your new thing?" she suggests immediately with a derisive snort.

Releasing his grip on her, Boyd sighs heavily and deliberately. "Hardly."

Refusing to be pacified, Grace irritably starts to clear clean crockery away into cupboards. "So how exactly would you describe letting DCI Jackson knock you about for six minutes, then?"

Boyd leans himself against the counter next to her. "I have no intention of letting him knock me about for six minutes. Quite the reverse, in fact. I'm going to take great satisfaction in permanently wiping the annoying smirk off his face."

The amount of quiet vehemence infusing the words makes her smile slightly. A smile she very quickly hides before turning to face him. "So you're really going to do this, then?"

"It's for charity, Grace. A proper black-tie gala."

"White Collar Boxing," she says, shaking her head. "I've never heard of anything so completely ridiculous. Two mature, professional men hitting each other for fun."

"Not for fun."

"Whatever you want to call it," she says impatiently.

Boyd rubs his beard reflectively for a moment. "Let's just say it's an… apposite… way to settle a few private scores."

"And if he beats you?"

The reply is predictably cocky. "He won't."

"But if he does?" she presses.

Boyd glowers down at her. "He _won't_, Grace. Have some bloody faith in me, will you?"

She does. She knows how tough he is, how incredibly stubborn. But she still finds the whole idea repugnant. Repugnant and idiotic. Querulously, she says, "You're both _far_ too old for this sort of thing, for heaven's sake."

"Not quite, according to the IWCBA."

She frowns. "The _what_?"

"The International White Collar Boxing Association," Boyd tells her, his tone suggesting that he's growing increasingly tired of humouring her. "I _told_ you – it's all properly organised and properly regulated. Completely legitimate."

"Sheer madness," Grace says. "What on _earth_ possessed you to say yes? Oh, you don't need to tell me, I can guess – Jackson and Kennedy were needling you and you were just too stubborn and too stupid to back down."

"Something like that," he admits ruefully.

She looks at him for a moment. Then she says, "Peter, I realise that for some inexplicable reason you're utterly convinced that you're Superman, but – and I know this will come as an unpleasant shock to you – you're not. You're a stressed-out middle-aged man with a bad back and a serious attitude problem. One who could do with losing a few pounds, actually."

Boyd glares in response. "Harsh, Grace. Very harsh."

"It's going to be absolute carnage," she says fatalistically. "Jackson's going to knock you senseless."

"We'll see."

"Apparently so."

Truce. A grudging truce, but a truce nonetheless.

Boyd grins at her, catches hold of her waist again. "Come on, admit it – you'll be right there in the front row."

"I detest boxing," Grace tells him haughtily, but she doesn't pull away. "It's a barbaric, pointless demonstration of the male ego at its very worst."

"Frankie's really looking forward to seeing me in shorts, you know," he says slyly.

Grace doesn't rise to it. "More fool her."

-oOo-

**June**

She sees him every day – _almost_ every day – and perhaps that's why Grace doesn't really notice. Not until the morning when it becomes abundantly clear that the impeccable grey Hackett suit that is one of his particular favourites no longer fits him in any meaningful way. _Then_ she notices. Notices that the broad shoulders suddenly seem even broader, that the musculature of the torso seems rather better defined; that he's significantly leaner and fitter than he's been for several years. It seems that after all the ribald comments – not just from _her_ – about his haphazard and only-very-reluctantly-followed training regime Boyd is actually going to have the last laugh. Some sort of subtle redistribution of weight seems to have slowly taken place over the last few couple of months, and even though Grace is still steadfastly refusing to support what she views as abject foolishness at very best, she quietly approves of the result of his grudging visits to the gym. In fact, she realises later the same day, next to the newly streamlined Boyd, Spencer – who is nearly fifteen years younger – is beginning to look distinctly chubby.

Others throughout the building have noticed, too, if the slowly-changing odds being offered on the outcome of the fight being bandied about are anything to go by. Though never exactly considered a rank outsider, the gap between Boyd and his marginally younger and fitter opponent is closing steadily and those who staked heavily on DCI Stuart Jackson peremptorily teaching the CCU's notoriously irascible commander a lesson or two are beginning to look considerably less sure of themselves as the odds relentlessly shorten. It's difficult not to get caught up in it all. On principle, Grace remains as aloof and disapproving as possible, but as the number of days to the gala event slowly dwindles away and the palpable undercurrent of excitement and enthusiasm becomes markedly stronger it becomes less and less easy to disdainfully dismiss the whole thing as one of Boyd's unfathomable peccadillos, one that will never come to anything.

No-one's openly calling it a grudge-match – but everyone who's anyone knows that's exactly what it is. The well-known rivalry between the basement-dwellers of the CCU and Jackson's second-floor CID squad has never been one of the friendly persuasion. The two commanders may loathe and despise each other for reasons that seem to be permanently lost back in the mists of time, but their mutual antagonism has certainly filtered through to at least some of their subordinates – in general relationships between the two teams are far from cordial. It makes for an enjoyable additional frisson, apparently, as those not directly involved begin to actively take sides. Oh, yes, the battle-lines are being drawn. Both figuratively and literally.

-oOo-

Grace has no personal reason to dislike Jackson. Yes, he is – like Boyd – gruff and outspoken, and he does have something of a reputation for being patronising and pedantic, but he's always been affable and polite towards her and quite often a good deal more respectful about her methods and theories than Boyd himself. Accordingly, she is quite prepared to be friendly the day he stops her just beyond the building's main reception desk ostensibly to ask about the state of a case that has been repeatedly shunted back and forth between the two teams with neither agreeing to accept responsibility for further investigation. Very quickly, however, she realises that she's being none-too-gently sounded out about the current psychological state of Jackson's adversary. Which irritates her rather less than his automatic assumption that she's in possession of privileged information. And would willingly be prepared to share the same.

She deflects his initial questions easily enough, and does so with a brittle smile, but when he begins to push a little harder she can't stop herself from saying, "You seem a little apprehensive, Stuart. Pre-fight nerves?"

He laughs heartily – but it sounds false and forced. "Not at all, Grace. Not at all. After all, it's just a bit of a show to raise some money for the kiddies, isn't it? The real highlight of the evening will be Roberts from Fraud Squad taking on that big chap from Traffic. Peter and I are just an insignificant part of the warm-up. Bit of fun and sport for the lads, if you like. Good for team morale; that sort of thing."

Idly, she finds herself wondering what Jackson would look like with a broken nose. She smiles again. Frostily. "Quite."

"Don't worry," he says earnestly. "I'll send him home to you in one piece. I gather you're not coming along to watch?"

"Wherever did you get that idea?" Grace asks sweetly, though he is, of course correct – she has made no secret of her absolute refusal to condone their swaggering male stupidly by attending the forthcoming gala night at the Met's Bushey Sports Club. But he's grating on her nerves with his smug assumptions about her and her tacit relationship with Boyd.

Jackson frowns. "Oh? I thought it was common knowledge."

"Really, Stuart," she says, hitching her bag more comfortably on her shoulder. "I would have thought you'd know far better than to pay any attention to rumour and gossip."

"So you _are_ coming?"

"Of course," she tells him with an insincere smile. "We're terribly loyal down in the basement, you know that. We'll _all_ be there."

"Jolly good," he says unconvincingly. "Well, may the best man win, and all that…"

Grace is still metaphorically grinding her teeth when she walks into Boyd's office several minutes later. Waving off his spurious morning greeting – it's been less than an hour since they parted company in her hallway – she does what she does best. She goes straight for the jugular. "I _swear_, Boyd, if you don't put Jackson flat on his back in the first round, I'll get up in the damn ring and do it myself…"

-oOo-

He's not bad. Better than she actually expected. Inevitably, he doesn't have the speed and agility of a younger, lighter man – like Jackson he's definitely a heavyweight – but he's tenacious and accurate, and his height gives him a long reach that enables him to keep a good distance from his shorter sparring partner and still land the kind of solid blows that make Grace wince. He can take punishment, too, she quickly realises, though she really doesn't want to dwell on that. Three two-minute rounds, that's all Boyd's got to endure against Jackson, but even so, it's not pleasant watching him taking the heavy punches that get past his defences. He keeps his hands too high, she thinks after several minutes of careful scrutiny, wincing as his evidently extremely-able opponent brutally pummels his ribs again. Spends too much time protecting his face and head, leaving his body open to attack. And as the thoughts go through her mind, Grace almost smiles grimly to herself. Suddenly she's an expert on the pugilistic arts. Boyd would definitely have a thing or two to say about that, she's quite sure, after weeks of sharp altercations and irritable bickering.

Eddie North, London cabbie and part-time boxing trainer, and himself a former police officer, wanders back over to join her again. A big man in his late fifties, he's surprisingly softly-spoken and she almost struggles to hear him as he says mildly, "Really not your thing, is it, Doctor?"

"Can you tell?" she asks him wryly. At no point in her life has Grace ever envisioned herself visiting a place like this, a small, run-down South London boxing gym. At least, not for personal reasons. Ignoring the other people busily training around them, she nods towards the two men still determinedly sparring in the ring. "So what do you think?"

North folds his brawny arms, expression thoughtful. "Honest answer? He's lazy. Doesn't like putting in the hard work. Thinks he can get by on strength, spirit and sheer guts. Put him up against a real fighter and he'd last all of about thirty seconds. But a few rounds against Jackson? He'll do okay, I reckon."

Grace gives him a sideways look. "Who's the smart money on?"

"Wouldn't like to say, ma'am."

_Ma'am_. He says it like a police officer. She snorts softly. "Diplomatic answer."

"Not really," North says with a slight shrug. "Word is they're pretty evenly-matched. You want my opinion? In the end it'll come down to motivation. Who really hates who the most."

Something about the way he says it makes her turn her head and study him carefully. Grace knows when to pay attention to her natural intuition. She does so now. She says, "You were a DS at Limehouse, weren't you, Eddie?"

"Yes, ma'am. For twenty years, give or take."

He definitely knows far more about what's behind the two men's mutual animosity than he's ever going to say, Grace thinks. Shrewdly, she asks, "So on that basis, who's _your_ money on?"

"Boyd," he says simply. "No question."

-oOo-

"You're enjoying this a little too much," Boyd grumbles, slouching bad-temperedly on one of the two wooden kitchen chairs that serve the little square table tucked near the back door. A grumble that becomes an agonised yelp. "Fuck's sake, woman… be bloody careful, will you?"

"Rotator cuff injury," she announces portentously, ignoring his complaints and firmly replacing the irritably-dislodged ice-pack.

The glare she receives in response is definitely less than friendly. "Since when have you been a _medical_ doctor, Doctor?"

"Since I had a long and very interesting chat with your friend Eddie," Grace tells him. Less amiably, she adds, "I warned you, didn't I? You're far too old for this sort of nonsense, Boyd. The pain's only going to get worse if you carry on; you realise that, don't you?"

"Six minutes, Grace. Six minutes."

"So you keep saying; but what about the next seven days?"

"It's nothing," Boyd mutters, experimentally flexing his injured shoulder and instantly wincing.

"You're so pig-headed," she accuses with a peevish sigh.

"Look, once it's all over, I'll go and see a proper bloody physio, okay?" he growls back, clearly not in the mood to be lectured. "You can even come along and hold my hand if you don't trust me."

Moving quietly away from him, Grace leans against the kitchen counter. She watches him for a few moments and then eventually asks, "Why does this mean so much to you, Peter? What _is_ it between you and Jackson?"

"Long story," Boyd says evasively. "Let's just say there aren't many people I'd rather go toe-to-toe with."

"Why?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Why won't you tell me?" she persists, irritated by his obstinacy.

"Because it's a… private matter, Grace. Nothing to do with work."

"So not just because CID likes to lord it over us at every opportunity, then?"

Boyd shakes his head. "That's merely… infuriating."

"And since we're talking about infuriating – I could become extremely offended about this complete refusal of yours to explain if I wanted to. In case you'd forgotten, we're supposed to be in a mature, sharing, supportive relationship."

His dark eyes glint at her, his mood seeming to abruptly change for the better. "Not just shagging, then?"

"Not just shagging," Grace says, straightening up. "And you're really not funny."

"Good thing you're not interested in me for my sense of humour, then, isn't it?" he says, grabbing her wrist gently and tugging her towards him.

Resisting, she complains, "You stink to high heaven. Go upstairs and have a shower."

"That's honest sweat, Grace."

"If I'd wanted sweat, I'd have chosen a builder, not a detective," she says promptly. Plucking the ice-pack deftly from his bare shoulder, she immediately drops it accurately into his lap. Boyd is on his feet faster than she actually believes possible for a man of his age, and the resulting irate tirade is absolutely deafening. And highly amusing. For Grace, at least.

-oOo-

**Gala Night**

"It's going to be fine," he says behind her, his voice abnormally gentle. "A few hours from now, we'll all be knocking back the booze and laughing, you'll see."

Turning to face him, Grace is struck once again by the bizarre unreality of the situation. They are almost ready to leave the house – his – and while she is immaculately coiffured and attired entirely appropriately for an expensive black-tie charity evening, Boyd is far more casually dressed; his formal clothes neatly packed away in the suit carrier currently hanging on the back of the bedroom door. After the bout with Jackson he will be seated at one of the big tables with everyone else from the CCU, grudgingly socialising as is expected of him as head of the unit, but until then...

She wishes she could tell him to quickly change his clothes, to settle at the table with them from the outset; to forget the whole idiotic thing. But her chance has long gone. If, indeed, she ever had even the slightest of chances. She tries to give him a bright, confident smile. "Just make sure you give him a damn good right-hander from me."

"Oh, I will. Depend on it."

Stepping into his proffered embrace, Grace mutters against his chest, "You're a fool, Boyd."

"Yeah, you may have mentioned that a few times."

Tightening her grip, she says. "Promise me you won't get hurt."

She feels the slight, wry chuckle almost more than she hears it. "Three short, refereed rounds against a fifty-two year-old bloke with a qualified medic in attendance? That's better odds than Spence and I get when we go out to nick a suspect. At least I'm not going to get stabbed, kicked or shot at tonight, am I?"

Carefully stepping away from him, Grace says, "I still don't understand why you're actually going through with this. Jackson only went along with the idea in the first place because he didn't want to lose face in front of Kennedy. He would've shaken your hand and agreed to call it all off weeks ago."

"I know."

"So why?" she demands, increasingly frustrated by his complete intractability.

Running his fingers through his hair, Boyd simply replies cryptically, "I have my reasons."

"So tell me," she demands, her patience finally running out. "_Tell_ me, Boyd, or you can drive yourself there and back, whatever state you're in – and I promise you, I won't be patiently waiting here when you get home."

His expression immediately hardens. "Don't do this, Grace. Not now; not tonight."

But Grace is too annoyed and too stressed to take notice of the warning signs. "I mean it. This isn't about you going into the ring – ridiculous and irresponsible though it is – this is about _trust_. This is about the fact that you won't explain to me _why_ you hate him so much."

"For God's sake, why are you so desperate to know?" he demands, his ferocious temper clearly rising as she refuses to back down.

"I'm not," she snaps in reply. "It's the principle of the thing."

"Jesus _Christ_…"

"Boyd – "

"He screwed my wife, all right?" he abruptly barks at her, eyes suddenly blazing. "He screwed my wife, he wrecked my bloody marriage, and afterwards Mary and I were so busy tearing chunks out of each other that we didn't notice the damage we were doing to our son. _That's_ why I hate him. Happy now…?"

-oOo-

They don't say much until they leave the motorway. Partly because of the sharp, strained atmosphere between them and partly because Grace really doesn't like driving Boyd's big Lexus. Or any SUV, in fact. She simply doesn't see the point of anyone who doesn't live out in the wilds driving such a vehicle – especially if they live and work in London. Her dislike of the car is a good cover for her uncharacteristic silence. At least, she hopes it is. Eventually, though, she can't stand the bitter quiet any longer, and she says, "Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have kept pushing you."

Boyd does not look at her. "I'm not good at the talking thing. Christ, if you don't know that by now…"

"I just find it difficult to understand why you won't share things with me."

There's a moment of silence followed by a grudging, "That's not exactly fair, is it?"

"Isn't it?" she asks reproachfully. "All the years we've known each other, Boyd; all the time we've been sleeping together, and yet until tonight I had absolutely no idea why your marriage really broke up."

His answer is immediate and oddly calm. "My marriage broke up because I was never at home, Grace. That's the sad truth."

"And Jackson?"

"If it hadn't been him, it would have been someone else. Sooner or later."

Grace shakes her head in disbelief. "So _now_ you decide to be philosophical about it?"

"When no-one's winding me up, I _am_ philosophical about it," Boyd says pointedly. He glances across at her. "Grace, I work in the same building with the bloody man. Nearly four years we've been based there now, and despite how much I loathe him not once in all that time have I given into the temptation to give him a damn good hiding."

"Until tonight."

"Until tonight," he agrees. His heavy sigh is perfectly audible. "But you're reading far too much into it. Was I going to run away from a direct challenge with my tail between my legs? No. Will I enjoy the chance to settle a few old scores? No question about it. But that's as far as it's ever going to go. You may _think_ I'm an idiot, but I'm really not prepared to throw my career away just for the sake of getting even with Jackson. It's just that sometimes…"

When his words trail away, Grace dryly says, "Please don't give me the John Wayne speech now, Boyd."

"'A man's gotta do what man's gotta do…'? Wouldn't dream of it."

Turning onto the long dark road that will take them south to the Met's sports club, she eventually says, "You will make sure you hit him hard, though, won't you?"

She can't see the fierce grin, but she can hear it. "Oh, you can absolutely count on that, Grace."

-oOo-

They are greeted in the crowded car park by a very exuberant Mel and Frankie, who immediately vie with each other to impart the unexpected news that Stuart Jackson has failed to make the weight required to take part in the bout. For Grace, it provides a brief flicker of hope. Boyd, however, looks far from pleased, particularly when Frankie gleefully informs them, "He's got an hour and then they'll weigh him again. If he hasn't sweated it off by then, it's game over. The CCU wins by default."

"The _CCU_ wins?" Boyd growls at her.

"All right, _you_ win by default. Same bloody difference, Boyd."

He glowers. "Remind me to ask you on Monday how _your_ bruises are, Frankie."

"Ignore him," Grace says lugubriously. She frowns. "Where's Spence?"

"In the changing rooms with Eddie North," Mel supplies with a nod towards one of the buildings. "He's taking the whole business of being an official second very seriously."

"Has anyone told him he's going to end up covered in blood and sweat and God knows what else?"

Mel grins. "Actually, I think he's really looking forward to it. The testosterone levels in there are through the roof."

"Another reason why I detest boxing," Grace says tartly.

"You should see the guy Chris Roberts is fighting. He looks like a gorilla. Only bigger."

A little despairingly, Grace shakes her head. "Thank you, Frankie. Why don't you and Mel go and find our table?"

"Everyone who's not involved in the weigh-in is in the bar," Frankie says with a shrug.

Only barely does Grace resist the impulse to sigh loudly. "Go and get a _drink_, then. Both of you."

"I have a better idea," Boyd says, sports holdall in one hand, suit carrier slung nonchalantly over the opposing shoulder. "Why don't all _three_ of you go and get a drink…?"

-oOo-

Frankie's right. The great and the good are all gathered in the largest and plushest of the sports club's several bars. There are a few – very senior – uniforms amongst the elegant dresses and the impeccable dinner jackets and Grace can't stop herself wincing as she catches a glimpse of Dyson – _Assistant Commissioner_ Dyson – through the crowd. She wonders what Boyd's would-be nemesis makes of his improbable decision to participate rather more directly than most in the evening's… entertainment. Probably the woman and her cohorts view it as just another indication of Boyd's complete unsuitability to be allowed to continue to head up a completely independent investigative unit. They view him as something of a loose cannon. Potentially a very dangerous loose cannon. And, Grace has to admit, they're not entirely wide of the mark.

It's not going to end well. The unstable external politics of the unit, Boyd's unpredictable eccentricity, tonight's fight. Them. None of it. There are dark storm clouds forming somewhere ahead; of that, Grace is very sure. The only thing that really remains to be seen is exactly what will bear the full force of the first destructive lightning strike – and when. And sometimes she's sure that deep in her heart she already knows. Because, despite how right it feels when she's lying sleepily in his arms, they have always been on borrowed time, right from the very first illicit, heart-stopping kiss that should never have been.

Almost as if sensing the dark direction of her thoughts, Mel suddenly says, "He'll be okay, Grace."

Pulling herself rapidly back to the here and now, Grace nods. "Of course he will."

Looking round as if to make sure they're not being overheard, even by Frankie who's talking to a tall young man Grace doesn't recognise, Mel says quietly, "You really like him, don't you?"

So young, Grace thinks. So young and so very earnest. She's tempted to chuckle at the young woman's conspiratorial sincerity, but instead she simply replies, "You know Boyd. Sometimes it's impossible not to _really_ like him. Other times…"

"…it's impossible not to _really_ hate him?" Mel suggests with a very slight smile. She hesitates before continuing, "He's one of the good guys, though, isn't he? At heart, I mean."

Grace is far too old and wise to be easily drawn in an inadvertent admission of anything. She sips her wine, says, "Not everyone thinks so."

"Yeah, but not everyone knows him like we do, do they?"

"There are times," Grace admits slowly, "when I don't think anyone knows him. Not really. There are times when I don't think he even knows himself. But he's good at his job, Mel, and that's all you need to worry about."

A short silence precedes, "You know he's the odds-on favourite now?"

"And _you_ know that surreptitious gambling on this sort of thing is deeply frowned on."

Mel grins, the expression lighting up her face. "So you _haven't_ got money on him?"

"I didn't say that."

Further discussion is interrupted by the arrival of a glum-looking Spencer. To Grace, he says, "He wants a word, if you've got a minute."

Surprised, she raises her eyebrows at Mel and immediately puts her drink down. "Don't tell me – he's finally seen sense?"

Spencer shakes his head ruefully. "No bloody chance. If Jackson makes the weight, it's game-on."

-oOo-

Not unreasonably refusing to follow Spencer into the uncharted – at least by her – territory of the men's changing rooms, Grace waits patiently for Boyd in the empty, utilitarian corridor. To calm the nervous fluttering in her stomach, she pointlessly reads the dog-eared fixture lists pinned to various big notice boards. Football, cricket, bowls, tennis; all sorts of different activities. The Met, like most police forces, is fiercely proud of its sporting heroes, and matches of all kinds are taken very seriously indeed. There are other boxing fixtures, too – proper amateur fights for the young, the strong and the athletic, not novelty white-collar events like this particular evening's series of zero-to-hero bouts. Which isn't to say that tonight's fighters aren't taking their few minutes in the spotlight every bit as seriously as their younger compatriots.

"Grace…?"

She turns at the sound of his voice, trying to compose herself. "Last chance to prove you're not quite as stupid as I think you are, Boyd."

"Let's just take it as read that I am, shall we?" he says dryly. "Jackson's just about made the weight. Fat bastard."

"That 'fat bastard' arrested both of the MacMahon Twins single-handed, remember?"

"Fifteen years ago," Boyd says with a slight sneer. He stops in front of her and looks down, his expression slightly quizzical, as if he is waiting for the tart lecture he suspects is coming.

Not for the first time, Grace wonders what it is that keeps them together when they are so fundamentally different in almost every imaginable way. What strange quirk of biology, chemistry or psychology – or combination thereof – is responsible for the patently ludicrous attraction, the one that doesn't ever seem to wane however much they bicker and fight. Carefully putting her hand flat on his chest, she says, "Nothing will ever persuade me that this isn't one of the stupidest things you've ever done, Peter; but if you're really going to do it, do it well."

"I will," he says gravely. "Grace…"

"Don't," she says, not willing to risk her hard-won equanimity. "Go on, get back in there and do whatever it is you need to do. Some of us who are far more sensible have a cordon bleu meal waiting."

Grace expects him to needle her for the observation, but he doesn't. He simply keeps looking down at her, pensive now. Gruffly, he asks, "We're all right, though, aren't we? You and me?"

"Of course we are," she tells him, trying to ignore the constrictive lump forming in her throat. She doesn't know whether she's lying to him or not. She tries to summon a trace of humour. "Just because you're the stupidest, stubbornest, most infuriating man on the face of the planet…"

"…doesn't me you don't love me?" Boyd finishes for her. There's something wry and resigned about the way he says it that tells her that he's chosen entirely the wrong moment to exercise the intense perception of which he's capable. He is looking straight into her, and Grace knows it. She wonders if he understands better than she does what he finds there.

"Something like that," she tells him roughly, forcing herself not to swallow hard. She closes her fingers tightly over his hand – already very professionally taped and bandaged – and says, "Remember, Boyd – hit him _hard_."

-oOo-

The first bout is wildly popular with the audience, the second markedly less so. The Roberts fight generally considered to be the highlight of the evening is still a long, long way off, and Grace finds herself wondering how much attention is really being paid to the other fighters by most of the people in attendance. There's a lot of chatter, a lot of laughter and a lot of blatant networking going on, with a great many people moving freely from table to table and barely glancing towards the ring in the centre of the big hall being used for the event. Even when the music blares out and the lighting pulses dramatically in a manner designed to increase the sense of excitement, there are still people who don't stop their relentless table-hopping. It annoys her. Almost as much as the slick but remarkably unfunny master of ceremonies responsible for announcing each bout.

Through the third fight Grace can feel the tension building at the CCU table just as clearly as she can feel the increased knotting of her stomach muscles and the accompanying low, uncomfortable swell of faint nausea. More than once one or other of her colleagues solicitously inquires whether she is all right, whether she wants to go out for a breath of air; comments and suggestions that she irritably waves off. A few tables away, she can see select members of Jackson's CID team, including the normally brash and loud-mouthed DS Guy Kennedy, and she notes with grim satisfaction that Jackson's officers and staff don't look any more confident than the members of the CCU present. Neither team, it seems, is entirely certain that victory will be theirs.

This is it, she thinks as the third fight concludes to half-hearted shouting and applause. This is really it.

If the whole thing has been some long, surreal nightmare, now is the moment when she'd really like to wake up. Preferably in her own warm, comfortable bed with Boyd snoring gently beside her like a great placid bear.

"Okay?" Frankie asks, dark eyes astute and concerned.

Grace nods. What else can she do?

Someone stops at the table, offers lively words of support and encouragement. She barely notices.

The master of ceremonies is back in the ring, his red bowtie a garish slash of colour under the bright lights. He is bellowing into his microphone, his words ringing out clearly over the background music. But Grace barely notices that, either.

-oOo-

_Continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

**The Fight**

Boyd is more disciplined than most people think. When he needs to be. A rigorous upbringing and a life spent in service of the public have ensured that. The surging adrenaline of the moment and the ever-present rage that wells inside him both give him the will to keep going forward despite the heavy blows that land, but it's the iron core of discipline that few credit him with possessing that prevents him from dropping his guard or over-reaching. And the blows coming his way _are_ heavy. Jackson's a big man, only a little shorter than himself, marginally younger and several pounds heavier, and Boyd quickly finds he's a force to be reckoned with. He pushes tenaciously back, gets in a few hefty shots of his own, but by the end of the very first round Boyd definitely knows that he's in serious trouble. His injured right shoulder is protesting savagely and his knees seem to be inexorably turning to jelly.

Retreating to his corner, he's not really aware of much beyond the square of canvas, the coloured ropes bounding it and the two men waiting there for him. He's barely aware of his gum shield being quickly removed, of cool water being poured into his mouth and over his face; hardly notices the rough but capable hands that seize his shoulder and knead hard.

Spencer's angry face looms in front of him. The words are lost until the younger man leans in closer and all-but bellows in his ear, "What the fuck are you doing? Dancing a bloody waltz with him? Stop pissing about and concentrate on fucking hitting the bastard!"

The level of aggression directed at him by his subordinate is startling. Spencer Jordan is not renowned for being meek and mild, but despite his well-known belligerence he generally has a healthy respect for the chain of command. Some part of Boyd's brain that isn't already fogged by pain and exhaustion vaguely understands that the antagonism is quite deliberate, designed to fire him up, to send him back out against Jackson with all guns blazing. Psychology. Grace would be proud.

Grace.

He tries to look for her in the ever-changing gaps between ropes and torsos and arms, but the lights are too bright and there are simply too many faces ranged around too many big circular tables. Before Boyd can turn his head to look any further, the gum shield is being none-too-gently replaced, someone is slapping him firmly on the back before stepping away and he's back on his feet.

Six minutes. Two already down, four to go, with another minute's blessed reprieve still to come.

Jackson comes forward too fast, already swinging for a target that's no longer there. It gives Boyd an inordinate amount of satisfaction to drive one, two, three clear shots straight into the other man's ribs. Bodywork. That's what will win what's looking more and more like becoming just a ruthless war of attrition. Not precise jabs to the jaw, but rib-breaking punishment that will remorselessly grind them both down. There's nothing fancy about this fight. Nothing balletic about the way they crash and clinch and pummel.

-oOo-

It's so much worse than Grace expects. It's harsh and it's brutal, the two big men sweating and grunting, and grappling hard between punches that sound every bit as bad as they look when they land. The crowd is becoming increasingly restless, too. To most, this is just a novelty bout – novel more for both combatants' senior rank than for their age. Two thick-skulled old war-horses facing each other down with grit and brute strength rather than with any kind of finesse, and the largest share of the audience is getting impatient, desperate to see the night's main event, one that promises a display of far more skill and dexterity than is currently being demonstrated.

Despite the noise, Grace doesn't miss Frankie's sharp declamation as Jackson pushes Boyd back against the ropes again. A simple, heartfelt, "Fuck…"

It could still go either way. Of course it could. Neither man seems to have a clear advantage over the other. Boyd is taller with a slightly longer reach, and he is a fraction quicker, but he is also lighter than Jackson and Grace can clearly see that he's favouring his damaged shoulder – and she can see that his opponent sees it, too.

This _is_ Boyd, she realises. This is the energetic, stubborn, overbearing man who didn't so much sneak under her defences as bulldoze straight through them. The man who can – and _will_ – laugh uproariously at the darkest and most inappropriate of jokes. The man who's been known to casually throw a suspect right across the interview room and think nothing of it. The big, handsome man who has a fondness for Armani suits and Gucci shoes; the man who casually wears a two-grand designer watch to work every day. The angry, haunted man who still automatically searches the faces in every crowd for some sign of his missing son. The man she didn't ever intend to fall in love with, but stupidly – and irrevocably – did.

Jackson is hitting him over and over again in his unprotected right flank.

And Grace is suddenly on her feet, and Grace is screaming, "Hit him, Boyd! Hit the fucking worthless piece of shit…!"

-oOo-

Improbably, Boyd hears her. Whether because he is on the ropes not far from what he has now discerned is the CCU's table or whether because he's so highly attuned to her voice he isn't sure, but it doesn't matter. He hears her, and that _is_ what matters. And she's unapologetically using the kind of language that would make a veteran Sergeant Major blush. In any other circumstance Boyd would find it hilarious, and he definitely wouldn't let her forget it. Ever. But he currently has other things on his mind – primarily trying to force Jackson back enough to enable him to get off the ropes. He keeps seeing glimpses of the white-shirted referee, wonders dimly why nothing is being done to break them apart, but uppermost in his mind is the intense pain in his shoulder.

Any moment the bell must ring to signal the end of the second round. It _must_.

Jackson smirks at him, the leer made even more prominent by his white gum shield, and as he draws his arm back for another sharp dig at Boyd's injured shoulder, there is a tiny, isolated moment when time seems to freeze; to freeze and rewind not just minutes and hours, but years. And in that frozen moment Boyd sees Jackson as he was, a cocky, good-looking young DS with a blunt sort of Estuary charm and a well-known eye for the ladies. And a keen eye for one married lady in particular.

"…the arrogant son of a bitch!"

Not his own voice. Not even Mary's voice. Grace's voice, strident and furious, cutting through the pain and the memories and the confusion.

It's nothing. It's _everything_.

Because however stupid and angry and temperamental Boyd is, however much he pointlessly shouts and rages against all the things he has absolutely no power to change, Grace is always there. Sometimes disapproving, certainly, but ultimately supportive, even if he doesn't always immediately recognise it. He does not deserve her. He honestly believes it, and perhaps that's why he too-often pushes her far, far too far, like an insecure child perpetually testing for the boundaries of parental love and tolerance.

She didn't want him to do this. Was afraid that he wouldn't, couldn't, walk away from it unscathed – and not just physically. Was afraid he'd allow his bristling pride and his ferocious temper to master him; that he'd make himself a laughing-stock in front of his peers. But still she is here, she is screaming unreservedly in support of him, and Boyd instinctively knows that if he could catch a single fleeting glimpse of her she would be… magnificent.

He comes roaring back into himself, the searing pain in his shoulder now nothing more than an insignificant irritation, and he starts to let fly with blow after blow, inexorably forcing Jackson back until he finally realises that the ringing in his ears is the bell signalling the end of the round and that the referee is bodily pushing between them.

-oOo-

Now there is blood. Boyd's, Grace is sure, from the way North goes quickly to work in the blue corner. Not much, but enough to perk up the crowd, to firmly focus attention away from chattering conversation and back onto the ring. The tuxedos and the expensive evening dresses are a thin façade, an elegant sham that masks something altogether more primitive and unpleasant. She thinks she understands a little of what the crowd baying for blood in the Coliseum must have been like. Vicious, unruly; hungry. Prurient.

_Panem et circenses_.

Bread and circuses.

And Grace suddenly despises herself just as much as she despises the wide-eyed, excited voyeurs all around her.

She could have stopped this ridiculous, brutal spectacle. She _should_ have stopped this ridiculous, brutal spectacle.

Should have pressed home her disgust and her disapproval; should have made him listen regardless of the personal cost to their relationship.

Yet, it is definitely not pathos Grace is witnessing, but some kind of savage, elemental glory. The great grizzled lion might be old, but he is very far from toothless.

Only _he_ could be so incredibly stupid. And so stupidly, pointlessly brave.

Pyrrhic victory. That's the _only_ thing Stuart Jackson can possibly salvage now. And maybe Boyd is smart enough to have known that all along. That win or lose, the dignity ultimately bestowed by the overt demonstration of sheer courage and defiance will be his, not Jackson's.

The bell rings again.

-oOo-

Despite the head-guard, it only takes a glancing blow to open the cut over his eye again, and that injustice enrages Boyd. He does not want the fight stopped. Not now, not so close to the final bell. The referee takes his time looking, but finally gives the curt nod to continue and the barrage of blows – both given and taken – begins again. There's not much left in him now. His knees are weak, his shoulder is just a blaze of agony and he is half-blinded by sweat and blood, but – and it's a significant _but_ – he can sense the commensurate weakness in his opponent, too. Grace was – _is_ – right. They are both far too old for this sort of epic stupidity. This is not a quick struggle to get handcuffs on a recalcitrant suspect; this is grim self-destruction on a grand scale for the most inane of reasons. For both of them.

Jackson's lip is split, one cheekbone is hugely swollen and his cocksure grin is now just a distant memory. And he's no longer pushing forward. He's grimly holding his ground, but he's not advancing. Not anymore.

It was all so long ago. A whole lifetime ago. And yet here they are, face to face like the most brutish of animals, for the sake of a feud that ceased to be important to anyone else years ago.

The eyes that look at back Boyd from the swollen, hated face are grey and washed-out and tired. No enmity, no aggression, no self-satisfaction. Just another weary, over-worked middle-aged man who's made some lamentable mistakes over the years and has the bitter regrets to prove it. But whether he wins or loses, Jackson's going home to a dark, empty flat. No-one to chide him, to love him, lecture him, laugh with him. No-one to share the good, the bad and the downright ugly with him.

Just for a moment, Boyd drops his guard. Literally.

And Jackson hits him squarely on the point of the jaw.

-oOo-

Knock-down.

The crowd roars. Near-apathy has become genuine enthusiasm. Oh, yes, the crowd are getting their money's worth now, and suddenly they are wholeheartedly following every bloody, dramatic moment that's left. The turgid, straightforward brawl that was little more than a private grudge-match has become a genuinely captivating spectacle.

Grace hates it. Hates all of it. The noise, the savagery; the blood and the sweat, the voyeuristic hunger of the audience.

She hates his stubbornness, his taciturn refusal to ever seek a compromise. Hates his pride, his stupidity. Hates the remaining walls and boundaries she still can't break through no matter how hard she tries to love him, understand him, support him.

Boyd's chest and shoulders are heaving and he looks blank and dazed, as if he doesn't really know where he is or what's happening as he stands docile in his corner waiting for Jackson to rise or the steady count to conclude. He looks incapable of continuing, as if the last frenzy of retaliatory blows that concluded with the powerful uppercut that put Jackson down on the canvas took absolutely everything he had left, and more.

Someone's fingers – Mel's – are digging painfully into Grace's forearm, the grip desperately tense as they wait, all of them, for the officially-sanctioned amount of time to run out.

Jackson makes one last feeble, shaky effort to regain his feet, but it's not enough. Not nearly enough. Seconds before the final bell, he is solemnly counted out by the referee.

-oOo-

Not for Grace; not for the perfidious Mary. For the boy.

It's always been for the boy. Boyd understands that now, as he moves mechanically through the formal conclusion, as he lets his arm be held aloft by the referee and exchanges a grudging tap of gloves with Jackson in the expected gesture of sportsmanship. For the lost boy who may not even be out there anywhere to be found. Not anymore. The misunderstood but much-loved boy who may now never come home, no matter how hard his heartbroken father tries to move heaven and earth to make the impossible possible.

"Boss?" Spencer's voice says quietly. He hasn't used the once-familiar epithet for several years. Boyd doesn't know or care why. "Come on, let's go."

Nothing has changed. That's the bitter truth. He doesn't feel any better. But what Boyd has done here tonight, he's done for his son. It's nothing. But in some way it is something. And a distant, lonely and very sad part of him knows what it may yet end up costing him. Not the crude blood and sweat that he's already paid in full, but the sorrowful tears that have yet to be shed. His… and hers.

-oOo-

The blue singlet is dark with sweat and liberally spattered with spots of blood. Traces of both shine accusingly on his skin, gleaming over muscles still pumped rock-hard from over-exertion. Head-guard removed, his hair is wet and matted and his expression is set, grim. Even the dark eyes have a flat, frightening look of the thousand-yard stare about them.

Now is not the time to carp and criticise, to tell him all the things he surely already knows. Despite her aversion, Grace ignores the blood and the sweat and puts a gentle hand on his bare arm, feels him flinch slightly at the unexpected touch. Exchanging a meaningful look with Spencer she says quietly, "Boyd? Let's get you cleaned up, hm?"

The words seem to bring him out of himself a little. He focuses on her and frowns slightly as if only just registering her presence. It takes him a moment longer to speak, but when he does, he's completely lucid. "You were right."

"Huh?" she responds, which is neither intelligent or insightful, but she's rather too preoccupied by his battered, bruised state to worry about it.

"You were right. I'm far too old for this kind of crap, Grace. Next time I get myself into something like this – "

"There's not going to _be_ a next time," she says firmly. Not caring whether Spencer is close enough to overhear or not, she bites out, "You've made your point – to everyone. Now it's time to agree to at least listen to me instead of completely shutting me out."

"If you think this was about making a point to _anyone_," Boyd says, sounding impossibly weary, "then you don't know me at all."

"And whose fault is that?" she demands, immediately regretting the sharpness of her tone. Less aggressively, she says, "It doesn't matter now. It's done. You wanted to do it and now you have. Congratulations, Boyd. Are you satisfied?"

"No," he says, and the single word is bleak, hollow. He seems to give himself an inward shake. Seems to rally a little. "Go back to the others and watch the main event. I'll join you all in a while."

"Boyd – "

"Not now, eh, Grace?" he says, tired and uncharacteristically quiet. "We'll talk later."

It's a very gentle dismissal, but it's unquestionably a dismissal. It stings, but despite her annoyance Grace grudgingly nods before turning and walking away.

-oOo-

**The Small Hours**

"It's a metaphor," she says, staring up into the darkness. His bed – very big and very modern – is extremely comfortable, and though tonight she is struggling, usually Grace has no trouble dropping off to sleep despite the unfamiliar masculinity of the room. Sometimes she wonders why they seem to spend far more time at her house than at his, but the only conclusion she's ever been able to draw is that away from work Boyd is incorrigibly lazy and would far rather be a guest than a host. Far less work involved.

Just as she's tempted to loudly repeat herself, he shifts restlessly next to her and demands, "What?"

"I said – "

"I heard what you said. _What_ is a metaphor for _what_?"

He sounds exceedingly bad-tempered. She's not remotely surprised. Two o'clock is now a distant memory and according to Boyd, despite the liberal ingestion of painkillers, he still feels like he's been hit by the proverbial truck. Several times. Patiently, she says, "Tonight. It's a metaphor for our entire relationship."

"Oh, God…"

"Maybe not exactly a metaphor," she muses. "But it's certainly symbolic."

She expects him to grumble. She does not expect him to say roughly, "You're an intelligent woman, Grace. And that's a bloody understatement. You're probably one of the most intelligent people I know, if not _the_ most…"

Warily, she offers, "So…?"

"So… I have to ask myself, if you so _thoroughly_ disapprove of me – of everything I _do_ and everything I _am_ – why the fuck are you still sleeping with me?"

There's no wry trace of humour in the words. Grace realises that instantly. If anything, they are delivered with a bitter intensity that immediately puts her on edge. Not willing to jump straight into an argument that could easily rage until dawn and beyond, she carefully asks, "Where on earth did that come from?"

The answering silence is taut and brooding. It takes him more than a minute, but eventually he growls, "Do you really think I'm not painfully aware of my own faults? Do you _really_ think I'm so self-centred and so egotistical that I can't see _exactly_ who and what I am?"

Alarm bells are ringing loudly in her head. Grace turns over onto her side to face him, unable to read his expression in the dark, but well-able to guess what's clearly written across his strong features. Choosing her words with care, she says, "Peter, if I didn't care about you – "

"This isn't about whether you care or not," he tells her sharply. "This isn't even about tonight. This is about you perpetually fucking lecturing me about things that are _nothing_ to do with you. About your continual criticism of my character, my decisions, my methods… Christ, Grace – who the _hell_ set you up in judgement over me?"

She doesn't reply. Doesn't trust herself to reply. The anger and the resentment are too strong. Instead, she quickly and silently gets out of his bed, ignores his muttered imprecations, and she walks away. She doesn't even bother to slam the bedroom door behind her.

-oOo-

Boyd does what he always does. He brazenly steals the darkness away. Literally, this time. He comes heavy-footed into the cold living room and he pauses only to switch on one of the table lamps before walking across to her. Defensively curled in what has always been her favourite armchair, Grace watches his approach without a word. When he is merely wrong, Boyd storms; bluster and sheer volume covering his apparent inability to even think about accepting culpability until he's had time to calm down and rationally consider the situation. And the storm, violent as it can be, is always far easier for her to weather than the occasional notion that he might – just _might_ – have something of a point. But he won't offer a trite apology for his unwelcome candour, she knows that. He never does. Unlike most people, Boyd never feels the need to apologise simply to keep the peace. Not where she is concerned, at least. Nor any of their CCU colleagues.

She thinks he will loom intimidatingly over her. That, or briskly pull her to her feet. He does neither. To her amazement, he calmly settles on the floor beside her chair and rests his head heavily back against her thigh. The cut above his eye is scabbed and swollen now, and the bruises on his cheekbones are still remorselessly darkening. Eyes closed, he says, "I was a Barnardo's boy, did you know that?"

She blinks, confused and surprised by the apparent non sequitur. Not sure if it's an olive branch or the start of another salvo, she replies cautiously, "I've never heard you mention it."

He doesn't stir from his position at her feet, nor does he open his eyes. "No reason to. Difficult child, apparently. Fostered a couple of times. Didn't work out."

Even more laconic than usual. She wonders what secrets lie hidden beyond the missing words. Still inclined to tread very carefully indeed, she asks, "Your parents…?"

"Weren't married. You know what things were like back then."

She does. It seems incredible – even improbable – now, but she remembers very well the scandal, the stigma, the spiteful gossip quickly attached to any poor girl who found herself with a baby and no sign of a husband. Still not sure where the conversation is leading, she murmurs, "Thank God things are different nowadays."

"Quite," Boyd says. Just as she's certain he's not going to say anything else, he continues, "I never had a father. Not even a name on a piece of paper, actually. When my son was born, it was as if everything in my life finally made sense. As if I suddenly knew how things were supposed to be. You understand?"

"I think so."

"The irony was I was so committed to being the best provider I could be… Well, you know what happened. I was always at work; Mary was a young mother trying to cope more-or-less on her own… And I didn't see it. Christ, how stupid was I? I honestly didn't see the trouble I was storing up for myself. And when I was promoted to DS, things just got worse. Out of the house at all hours of the day and night…" he trails into silence. Finally opens his eyes and turns his head to look at her. "I was a fucking useless husband and – as it turns out – a bloody awful father, too. I wanted to give that boy everything I never had, and when things started to go wrong, it was so easy to just throw money at him. But he didn't need money, Grace, he needed time. My time."

"Where are you going with this, Peter?" she asks him gently, confident now that he is not going to lash out at her.

"I have no idea," he says, a simple note of honesty raw in his voice. "Jackson, I suppose. He's a perpetual thorn in my side. A constant reminder of just how badly I managed to screw up all the things that were important."

"And now," she guesses, "you're starting to realise that tonight didn't give you any of the things you thought it would?"

"You should be a psychologist, Grace."

"All this guilt you're carrying, Peter… in the end it _will_ destroy you, unless you learn how to let it go."

"Maybe I don't want to."

The words aren't a great surprise, nor is the defeated tone of his voice. But Grace isn't prepared to accept either without a fight. Deliberately acerbic, she challenges, "So… what? You're going to spend the rest of your life punishing yourself – and everyone around you – for mistakes you made years ago?"

Boyd closes his eyes again, effectively locking her out. "Guess so."

A tiny, unwelcome hint of contempt unwittingly finds its way into her voice as she replies, "Then you really _are_ a fool."

The silence that falls between them is deeply melancholy, but strangely not at all hostile. Hardly aware of doing so, Grace starts to stroke her fingers softly through his hair. He doesn't move, doesn't make a sound. All she can hear is the sound of their breathing, the quiet ticking of the carriage clock on the mantelpiece and the distant, muffled sound of night-time London traffic somewhere in the distance.

It's a long, long time before he quietly asks, "So where does that leave us? You and me?"

She carries on stroking his hair in a slow, gentle rhythm. "I have no idea."

Boyd opens his eyes again and gazes steadily up at her. "Liar."

Grace tries not to sigh. "What do you want me to say, Boyd? That we're fundamentally too different? That if we carry on the way we are, we're going to end up really hurting each other?"

"Just be honest, Grace. Isn't that the very least we owe each other?"

This time it's Grace who closes her eyes. She's cold and weary; physically and emotionally drained. The words come from some deep, secret place, and though they are stark, they come gently. "I love you, Peter – but there are times when I really don't like you very much. And I think tonight… I think tonight finally proved to me that there are just too many… irreconcilable differences."

He doesn't shout and he doesn't storm. He simply asks, "Is that it for us, then?"

There's a lump in her throat again, one that doesn't disappear when she swallows hard. "Maybe, I don't know."

"Win the battle, lose the war."

"What?"

"Tonight," he elucidates. "I won the fight, but…"

"Oh, I see."

There's another long silence. Then: "If I thought I could ever be the man you deserve, Grace…"

Something fiercely protective that loves him unreservedly makes her respond, "Don't think like that. Don't ever think like that, Peter. You're a good man – do you really think we would have come this far if you weren't? We just… Oh, I don't know…"

"Bring out the worst in each other?"

She nods slowly, adds, "And the best."

"And that's the real tragedy, isn't it?"

Slowly, Grace uncurls herself and lowers herself down onto the floor to sit next to him, gratified when he immediately puts an arm around her and draws her close against him. He's reassuringly warm and solid – heartbreakingly so. She wonders if she will ever stop loving him, wanting him. Caring about him. She sighs heavily. "Peter – "

"Not tonight," Boyd says, close to her ear. He kisses her temple gently. "Not tonight, Grace. Tonight we keep pretending everything's all right."

Somehow managing to press herself even closer against him, she whispers, "You're such an idiot, Boyd."

The reply is gentle, rueful. Full of pain and meaning. "I know."

They sit there together on the cold wooden floor for a long, long time, hardly speaking, just tightly holding onto each other. Only Grace is still awake when the harsh edges of dawn begin to bolster the soft circle of light from the side lamp. And as the morning comes, only Grace is beginning to understand just how dark and dangerous the oncoming storm clouds she has been gloomily prophesying really are.

_- the end -_

* * *

_**A/N:** I mooted the idea of this fic a long, long time ago and promptly forgot all about it until Gemenied reminded me and also provided a few extra stipulations. If you're wondering where on earth the central idea of the charity boxing match came from, well, from the true story of a real middle-aged Met Police DI who nobly went into the ring at a black-tie event. He lost. But with style. All else is pure self-indulgence. Humour me. ;)_


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